Schuylkill Dogs
by thesneakydragon
Summary: Emboldened by the success of CtOS in Chicago, other cities across the country adapted it as their city-wide OS. Philadelphia was one of them. The Watch Dogs of Philly found their sense of justice and their own revolution in hacking. I turn the world as I see fit. OC.
1. ATTRIB

******Schuylkill Dogs**  


**BY**

**thesneakydragon**

**CHAPTER_01  
**

**OPERATION_ATTRIB**

**DISCLAIMER: All trademarks are properties of and belong to their respective owners, including Watch_Dogs to Ubisoft and Ubisoft Montreal. This is a work of fiction. Any use of or resemblance to persons, places, things, or actual events or incidences is used in a fictitious manner and is entirely coincidental.**

* * *

"Emboldened by the sharp reduction of crime in Chicago, CtOS spurred other cities across the country to adopt municipal operating systems. Even though it has been in service for a little over six months, Philadelphia's own CtOS-based PhilOS has caused the crime rate to fall dramatically. See the incredible stories tonight on Eyewitness News at six."

Walking down Market Street in the afternoon seemed like walking down any other major city in the United States. Surrounded by skyscrapers, traffic, and the hustle seemed normal. Mixed with the cacophony of the sights and the noise of the city, I could imagine if I was in New York or Chicago sometimes. Except that everyone said "youse" all the time, Center City, Philadelphia didn't seem that different. With the weather being mild tonight, I did not need a jacket. A subdued baseball cap, some cargo pants, and a pair of comfortable sneakers worked out well.

To be honest, I ain't from here. Because I don't pronounce "youse" and "wooder", I never had that recognizable Philadelphia accent growing up. Cheesesteaks, hoagies, soft pretzels, and water ice were things I wasn't raised with. Worshipping on the Eagles' Sunday was not a weekly ritual and demonizing the Cowboys wasn't either. Don't get me wrong, I like sports, but I wasn't going to reach a true Philadelphian until I got old and wrinkly. But overall, Philadelphians have welcomed me I guess.

With smartphone in one hand and coffee in the other, Samantha Trimble was one of them. Freelance technology journalist and blogger by trade; she was my host, a source of dirt, the naughty things people think they can hide on the internet. With her bright yellow blouse, khaki capris, and sandals that were picked from a thrift shop, I guess she looked the part. Briefly glancing up from her phone, she pocketed it and walked toward me. That goofy grin on her face seemed to follow her wherever she went.

"Hey, Nathan," she said, pulling me in to a hug. "Did you eat?"

"Not yet, Sam," I shrugged. "I was going to find some fast-food somewhere on 17th."

"Well, I'm going to change that. Let's find you a hoagie," she chirped, whipping out her smartphone and browsing through with her nimble, lanky fingers. "Found one on 18th street!"

I rested my arm around her neck. "Good. You can take me there."

"Why do we have to act like we're married?"

"Because," I quipped. "I'm not a sex offender?"

She laughed and spun around, her mahogany handbag nearly hitting me in the face. "Oh stop it, you smart-ass. You aren't the type for boasting."

"'Cause I'm not," I shrugged. "I just don't find the need to."

If someone boasted he was a hacker, he wasn't really a hacker. There were only two people who came out of it, script kiddies or people who sold out to corporate or government. Both were equally dangerous. They squealed too much and caused too many problems. It was like a deal with the devil, freedom in exchange for profit. Why not reject them and have both instead? The best hackers wisely stayed away anyway, joining a network where their talents could run unhindered.

We settled down in a busy hoagie joint after a ten minute walk toward City Hall. No true Philadelphian would walk into a Subway. They'd rather eat a bad hoagie than a half-way decent generic foot-long. I couldn't fault them for stubbornly clinging to their traditions to a fault. I had one made of prosciutto, salami, and drenched in olive oil. We sat down, hopefully passing a bit of time before setting off to do our business.

"Is Daemon going with us tonight?"

"Don't worry, Nathan," Sam said, between bites. "He'll be joining us just in time."

I snorted. "Hmph. He'd better be. I can whoop his ass at any batting cage."

She pointed at me with a naughty smirk crossing her lips. "Don't be boasting about who can do sports better. Remember the time you spun and crashed on the go-karts?"

"Psh. Says the lady that fell off the mechanical bull before it even started."

"I can't say the same for the man that tripped over a stick on the ice rink."

"You fell down with me!"

We laughed. These innocuous conversations were something that was undoubtedly necessary. We had to assume we were being watched in City Center. Instead of trying to act like spies in the movies, we acted like normal people having a good time out. According to the government, if we had nothing to hide, they'd have no reason to spy us. Might as well try to beat them at their own game.

I took another bite. "I heard you have a date tonight."

"Mmhmm."

"Who's your man this time?"

Leaning in closer, Sam slipped me a small photo, about the size of a postage stamp. "Marco Carranti. I can't say I wish there were fewer people like him in the world; successful investor by trade and charity scammer on the side. Some say only 20% of donations ever goes to his charity."

Oh my god, it looked like a guido had just grown up and was just shoved into a suit. I guess he insisted on keeping the slicked-back hairstyle and the gold chain that managed to poke out of his shirt. His smile crooked awkwardly revealing some shiny, bleached teeth.

I chuckled. "Well, somebody's got to run it. Which one?"

"You know those ads for North Star Charities they run on TV?" Sam said.

"Yeah, I've seen those," I said, sitting back into my seat. "'Providing hope for North Philly' is one hell of a bold claim. Wasn't that kid on TV they always use from Fairhill?"

Her chestnut eyes narrowed. "Before you go knocking on neighborhoods in North Philly, some good does come out of Fairhill, okay?"

"Okay, jeezus, calm down. Everyone else talks smack about it anyway. So why this guy?"

"Unfortunately, he can't back that up," she said as she tidied up her rubbish. "He said he works in the area but all internet traffic comes out of an IP in Liberty Place."

I pointed outside. "That's like a block away from here."

"And City Hall, probably where he gets his funding."

"I knew that," I said. "Time to get to work. Anything else?"

She slung her handbag across her shoulder. "It's up to you how you handle it," Sam shrugged. "Outside influence should be low. Call Daemon or I if you need help."

She went one way and I went another. For what it's worth, the public put on such a complex and flimsy façade to their predictable routines. To me, it was almost comical. We knew what was happening all around us; the government spying controversies, the leaks, and the intrusions onto the PhilOS were in the papers every day. We saw how the world turned to shit, pushed by men who just wanted to see the world burn. And yet, we didn't seem to care one bit. We more immediate issues, like feeding a hungry Italian family, how much the price of crack was on the North Side, and who to boo at the next Phillies game.

Sitting underneath the glistening rotunda underneath the Shops at Liberty Place left me to my detective work squinting over my phone. Hacking had become more accessible to the average person, if people knew where to look. The deepweb was a part of the internet where search engines and google-fu were useless. It supplied everything from worms, jailbroken phones, profilers, and other goods and services that would rile a few people in the FBI. If anyone was that desperate, hiring a professional hacker, fixer, or a mechanic was only a few bitcoins away. Thankfully, because the average computer user wasn't that smart; my job was safe. To the multitude that didn't know how to re-install their operating system, hide behind a proxy, or got their cyber-security scare from mainstream media, my work was as indistinguishable as magic. Only people who were truly interested in finding it got in.

To save money in the soul-sucking recession, it was beneficial for government and private companies to share more of the same infrastructure and its capabilities in the past, eliminating redundancy, speeding communications, and improving network stability. But this meant placing a greater burden of network security in hands of the willfully ignorant computing masses. IT guys must have pulled all their hair out. Imagine the horror the founding fathers would have encountered where they signed the Constitution with their own bloody hands. Politicians in City Hall would like to think they're doing a favor by remodeling the Constitution Center and disregarding the 4th Amendment at the same time. Classy as hell.

"What are you hiding?" I mused.

Sifting through documents and spreadsheets on his workstation, I found what I was looking for. Only 5% of it went to actually working for the charity. Plans for TV and radio spots, invoice to New York, and even season tickets to Eagles games on a logged-on email through an open browser caught my eye. It certainly beat taking a stroll off Broad Street. Any competent prosecutor would nail this guy for a charity scam, after all the murder cases were sorted first.

It was good enough for most whistleblowers, but I needed a more personal touch, something to put a face or a voice to the money laundering. Snooping around the network ports for a while, I found what I was looking for. Call incoming, call intercepted. I put some headphones in and hit record. This was going to be good.

"Boss, we're only using 5% toward the charity," a caller said. "There's no way we can sustain ourselves running all this flashy crap on TV."

"We need donors from the people and that's what's keeps us alive," Marco explained. "No smart-ass businessman wants to invest in a ghetto filled with crackheads and anchor babies."

"Umm, we can't call ourselves a charity if were only give 5%."

"Calm down, I've bought us some time from City Hall," he reassured him. "Once donor revenue increases, we can give more back."

"That isn't how a non-profit is run, Marco. W-we can't keep going on like this. If anything, we should've started smaller. I'm struggling to raise capital as is."

"Raise more," Marco ordered. "We need to compete, like it's a business. Those monies that gets collected on TV? It doesn't go to Philly; it goes to a starving kid in Africa."

"That's not the point-"

"That's exactly my point! That is what we have to sell people on. It's working for politicians, but they can't guarantee us funding every session."

That was it. I was done here. As far as I was concerned, it was just a matter of pushing him into his own grave. Not being the type to actively participate in mudslinging someone's reputation, I was more satisfied at helping the process along, if you know what I mean. Some really thought that they could change the world with these types of shenanigans, waging anarchy in the digital universe. However, I liked to keep my expectations under control. Computers never design or change policy, men with inflated egos do.

Using SQL exploits in the network, I watched through the security cameras as he hurried off work a bit early. He paced quickly toward the elevators, checking his phone every few minutes, expecting another call or a text message. Flash a few cheeky smiles at the hot blonde, office ladies trying to scam out of work was a touching gesture. He really thought he could pick them up for dinner or casual sex. For me, that was the signal to hack into his cell phone GPS and go for a walk nearby.

Gathering myself up, I headed toward the nearest exit, dumping me on South 16th Street. Diving to a little hole-in-the-war bar for Quizzo nights sounded tempting, but I needed to be focused. I looked up and wondered who the hell could afford to live in Center City. Getting a decent neighborhood to live in was such a pain in the ass. I have to admire that some managed to go places beyond North Philly, but I haven't met someone like that yet. Leaving the hood behind was an alien concept to most.

Checking my cell phone, the pale blue dot that signaled Carranti's cell phone was heading toward the corner of 17th and Market. Although I could look up where he lived, I was more interested in where he was going. Timing was key; whether he lived in South Philly, across the Schuylkill, or even past the freaking Delaware River made no difference. He'd have to run to Suburban Station, or at least through the underground concourse beneath downtown. I was not in the mood to tail this asshole for very long.

It would be nice to have backup. Time to call the expert specialist, Daemon Rodriguez.

"Hey, Daemon," I said. "Where you at?"

"I'm online," he said. "I'm loving the new game you gifted me, ya hear me? I get to ride a dragon!"

I chuckled. Whatever makes him happy. "How many hours have you sunk into it?"

"Just a couple. I'll probably let my kid brother join me on raids if I can gain a few more levels."

"Can you cover me in co-op?"

"I'd thought you'd never ask," he said, as muffled yells and screeches filtered through in the background. "You were never the type. Ready to jump in when you are."

Certain I could catch my man in time, I jogged down the stairs. "I'm heading to the suburbs. Follow me there."

I put Daemon on hold. He would be on any moment to connect my heavily proxied phone through his virtual server, enabling me to bounce any traffic under a completely different identity. Even though I could probably get away with spoofing or hijacking IP addresses, Daemon was better at this job than I was. Every group had to have a technical expert. It was best that I left the black magic to him.

I stopped at the first security camera I saw and shuffled to the side, out-of-the-way of commuters trying to return home. Up, down, left, right; it was hacked alright. I jumped into the security camera and took manual control, on the off-chance he was nearby. Checking my cell phone again and the pale blue dot was heading north, toward the SEPTA regional rail platforms. If the timing was right, I could catch him in the main atrium.

"You still there, Daemon?" I said.

"Uh-huh," Daemon said. "I see you and your mark. Gotta catch it quick, holmes."

"Easy man, it ain't leaving town. Have your loadout ready?"

"Before you even asked."

"Good. Wait for the code."

"You know me. Don't worry about it."

Through the sounds of the street performers' guitars strumming and a-cappella voices crooning, I weaved my way through the station focused on that pale blue dot. I was waiting for it to stop, for Marco to take just one more important phone call. Just one more thing to delay him. A text message, a call, a notification, something to distract him so I can do my job and shut him down.

As I turned a corner, I saw him, strutting down ever so pompous with his hands in his pockets and his head pointed straight up at the ceiling. He stopped in the middle of the atrium and pulled out his cell phone. I had him where I needed to be. His thumbs darted all over his phone. My thumbs decided his fate.

_ATTRIB.  
_

And just like that, Marco's face pops up on every SEPTA-owned screen in Suburban Station. Accompanying that sniveling face of his, was that conversation I was only too happy to record and loop. He just stared at it, eyes open wide, seeing his venture burn in front of him. Cell phone dropped, like a judge's gavel, confirming his judgement to the world.

"Hey, isn't that the guy on TV?"

"I thought he looked sleazy, but this?"

"You're right, it is him."

"I knew it was too good to be true."

And the doubts kept flowing. The may actually see it on the six o'clock news when they get home tonight. If I found out he would be working as a dishwasher for the rest of his life, so be it. There was no underlying reason it had to be him. Sam may have chosen him for the Watch Dogs Network, but I did it for the lulz, to watch someone who genuinely thought they could get away with it for my pleasure. A sadist that indulged in such petty Schadenfreude was appalling to those who really believed the internet would make us better human beings. Who were they kidding?

Navigating through the sea of weary people, I deftly made my escape through the corridors of the underground pedestrian concourse. If I was right, the system would log and detect the intrusion and the police would swarm this area. I scanned the signs, hoping to find a platform within easy reach and the quickest way out of here. Chestnut Hill or to Manayunk? Trenton or the Airport? A man like me had to have options. Just not Camden; I'd be murdered if I was trapped in the armpit of New Jersey.

Browsing through my phone, I headed for the El platforms, as metro lines stopped more often, I could get off faster. Catching a regional rail line meant having to deal with conductors and more police the longer I traveled.

"Police. Put your hands up and face the wall."

I stopped. Philadelphia Police. Only the ignorant believed that the Philadelphia or Transit Police were out to serve the public good. It seemed like every month there was another story about police brutality or corruption. I've seen the videos people post on the internet. A kid slammed on the hood of a police car, a defenseless man beat up on the ground, a woman inappropriately frisked, cops taking drug money for bribes, and the offenses they get away with multiply every year. The police harass and beat people up so much every day that I think their public affairs department has given up.

"Man, I ain't done nothing," a man said. "This is bullshit, I'm telling you."

"There was a hacking attempt recently and we believe it came from your device."

I looked back. Okay, completely different person they're bullying. The tall, black police officer was frisking another black guy in a tan Wawa polo shirt and dark brown slacks. Hands up against the grimy yellow walls, just like he was told to do. Pulling out my cell phone again, I pretended to browse through my texts.

_Daryll Webber. 29. Convenience store manager. Asthma. Detained by SEPTA Transit Police._

He stripped Daryll's brown Wawa cap off his head and dropped it on the floor. "Is that your cell phone?" he demanded.

"Yeah, it is. I don't hack. What the hell does it have to with it anyway?" Daryll sighed, his frizzled hair moving with his head. The officer patted and frisked him. He turned to the officer, "Look, if you excuse me, I'm exhausted and I gotta get home tonight in Chester. I missed the last train thanks to you and I gotta catch the next one."

As he tried to walk, the cop forced him back to the wall. "Stop. Sir, get your hands back on the wall. If you resist again, I'll arrest you for disorderly conduct."

I turned and walked away, but two more cops, black and Hispanic, ran down and shoved past me without a word of apology. I don't know what was said after that. But when I turned back around, I saw chaos.

"Hey. Hey! What y'all doing? Get off of me!" Daryll pleaded.

"Get your hands behind your back!"

Four cops in their starched blue uniforms dog-piled all around him and wrestled him to the ground, forcing his hands back into chrome handcuffs. His face was squeezed onto the floor, held down by another cop's elbow. It surprised me that none of the cops "accidentally" kicked or sucker punched him.

"I don't know what you're doing," Daryll cried. "I know my rights!"

As much as I sympathized with him, I was not intervening. Citizens' Arrests were not part of our job. If we really wanted to, we could to hack into the cameras, record the surveillance footage, and upload it online. But the risks always outweighed the benefits. The police officer would never get the punishment they deserved and we exposed ourselves to far more prying government eyes. Hoping that someone caught it on their phone and posted it publicly to the internet was the best solution. A much more legal exercise of 1st Amendment rights I'm sure.

"Help! I have asthma!" Daryll gagged and coughed. "I can't breathe! I ain't playin! I'm gonna die!"

Cell phone in hand, mission complete, I reached the El platforms of 15th Street Station in one piece and without further harassment. I called Sam again. Maybe she'd want to know how things went down.

"Sam?" I asked.

"Mmhmm, Nathan?" she replied.

The El train squealed beside me as it pulled in. "I'm done here. Where should I meet you?"

"Feeling adventurous? How about Chinatown?"

"Not tonight," I sighed. Getting lost among obnoxious, English-deprived FOB Chinese was not my idea to end my day. "How about by Penn's Landing?"

"Okay, see you in a bit."

"Yeah, you too," I said, hopping on before the doors closed and I was sped away from the platform.

When the public could not influence policy through legal means, it was only natural that the hacking movement exploded. The Watch Dogs Network was organized to coordinate legitimite hacking across the nation. Every successful hack by local cells gave us reason to continue the fight. Everyone that took advantage of other's trust and welfare were frightened and rightly so. The movements, rallies, protests, and petitions never worked. Outcry had run its course as we were continually disappointed by the system. We constantly yearned for the end of all this misery, but that never came. It only created more divides, mostly between the connected and the disconnected.

I can't say good things came out of my decision to hack, but I understood the risks and its consequences. An honest living was something that was off the table to begin with. Maybe things will get better and things will change, maybe. Hope, optimism, and faith were things I believed in. In response to all of this uncertainty, I embraced calculation, fact, and rationality. In this age, people got exactly what they deserved. Humans lied all the time, but logs never did. But that's what drew me in, I trusted the data and liked the certainty.

I emerged from 2nd Street Station feeling good, but had to keep that to myself. Old City didn't seem as welcoming as it once was.

But maybe that was just my imagination.

* * *

**Rule of the Internet #12: Anything you say can and will be used against you.**

* * *

AN: Ubisoft chose Chicago, I chose Philadelphia, birthplace of the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the United States itself. The irony of putting a surveillance state in the birthplace of freedom seemed fitting. I visited Philadelphia myself and I liked being surrounded by the history and diversity. Any technology used, especially hacking, will lean a little closer to Hollywood's depiction rather than hardcore realism. This keeps me from overwhelming you with technobabble and killing pacing. However, hacking will try to keep as much plausibility to make it believable. Sources include information gathered from Wikipedia, journals, and the Deep Web. _Uplink_ has probably been my go to game for my inspiration of hacking mechanics. A lot has been gathered from gameplay trailers and footage but it'll probably turn AU as release approaches. Nevertheless, there is plenty of room for Aiden or other key characters to appear.

Any feedback is appreciated.


	2. BREAK

**CHAPTER_02  
**

**OPERATION_BREAK**

**DISCLAIMER: All trademarks are properties of and belong to their respective owners, including Watch_Dogs to Ubisoft and Ubisoft Montreal. This is a work of fiction. Any use of or resemblance to persons, places, things, or actual events or incidences is used in a fictitious manner and is entirely coincidental.**

4537 Spruce Street, Apt 4, was a normally quiet neighborhood in West Philadelphia. Everyone said I lucked out. The corner of Spruce and 46th Street was one of the most diverse and one of the safest corners in all of Philadelphia, or so I'm told. As I haven't had much luck with the ladies, I just needed a hole to sleep in. And I enjoyed every moment I spent in my memory-foam bed. Hacking brought me here and it still sustained me enough to pay the bills. I wished I could take advantage of everything while I still could.

Two new voice-mails sat on my phone. Even though it just said "Restricted" on my phone, I knew whom they were from. Might as well listen to them to get them off it.

I played the first one. "Nathan, it's your kid sister Emily again. Look, I'm sorry about lying to you about the money you lent me. I promise it won't happen again." She sighed, "I need some more though, the scholarships and grants aren't enough and financial aid is giving me a hard time. Come back home to Memphis, okay? I miss you."

There was no way I believed her sad excuse for partying too much in college. She was being lazy about it or that her grades were so bad that she couldn't get it in the first place. Even though she was my sister, I was never going to lend my money out so blindly ever again. Anticipating the worst, I deactivated my PayPal account just to be extra sure. While I doubt her ability to hack into my PayPal or bitcoin wallet, I don't doubt her ability to play coy. She irritated me on so many levels.

I played the second one. "Hey bro, it's me Larry, calling from BFN, Asscrackistan. Anyway, we had one idiot butterbar from Cali nearly drop his M9 in the porta-potties. Hope you had a better day than that fuck-knuckle. I'll be coming home soon, but I don't know when. I'll let you know."

Truth be told, I wished he stayed in the sandbox for a little while longer. We might have been close growing up as siblings back in Memphis, but I couldn't associate with him that close now. His decision to join the Army was something I still support personally; but he still represented the leviathan, the system. Loyalty, duty, respect, selfless service, honor, integrity, and personal courage were values the Army instilled in him as a soldier. As a hacker, we were encouraged to disregard all of that. For their sake and mine, I lied to them daily. I answered to whom I wanted to, not the other way around. There's no way mom would have approved either.

Daemon and Sam would be here in about half an hour. In the age of Skype, e-mail, and text messaging, many would call this cumbersome and unnecessary. But when government, hell even corporations, could generate thousands of "emergency" requests for user data in minutes, this was our protection. I was not going to get screwed over without me knowing about it. The legal system would be our unwitting ally, to force court orders, subpoenas, and search warrants into the public eye. Whoever wanted to find our data got it with the path of least resistance. Any Watch Dogs member knew that. Increasing police raids against other activist groups weren't exactly coincidental. The government feared its people. And after the shutdown debacle, I'm glad they did. That's how America should be.

I got dressed and tried to tidy the place up a bit. It wasn't much but it was something. A small kitchen there, some gently used couches off of Craigslist, and a small TV which doubled as a computer monitor made this place livable. It wasn't my mom's basement or a den of squalor like they portray in the movies. The buzzer rang, so it should be them. I dumped the last pieces of dust and garbage into the bin and answered the door.

"Hey, Nathan," Sam hugged me like she always did. "How ya' doin?"

T-shirt, jeans, and no high-heels, Sam always knew how to rock a casual look. Whoever dated her got a good lesson in what not to wear and a friendly voice to talk to. Only if they could stand her incessant cell phone usage.

"Holmes," Daemon pulled me into a handshake.

Daemon was never really the type to care too much about his appearances. For starters, his fashion choices always involved video games; like Mario riding a velociraptor. Similar to a fashionista, he liked to keep his wavy brown hair long and tie it back. Thankfully, he started to lose some weight by carrying a backpack everywhere he went. His pudgy face annoyed the hell out of me when I first met him. Despite all that, he's a good man and knows more than me when it comes to coding and penetration.

"Well, come in," I gestured. "Have a seat. Wanna lager to get this party started?"

"Sure," they both said.

I grabbed the Yuenglings from the fridge, turned on the music, and plopped down. "So, what's the plan?"

"Let's break a bank," Sam said. "Gotta Big Mahoff in my sights." She slapped a photo down onto the table. "Renée Cole, COO, Northeast Area of Intellibank. Through her agents, she targets the just-starting-to-pay-my-obnoxious-student-loan market and slams people with foreclosures."

Prim and professional defined any stuck-up executive and she was no different on a photograph. While she looked the part with a tailored suit and pearl necklace, I couldn't help feeling something was off. That smile on her face, how her slim lips curved; it just did not seem genuine. I gazed into her hazel eyes, through her pompous burgundy hair, and surmised that there was something deeper. Like an inner voice that whispered "don't mess with me, I have lawyers" kind of thing. She looked non-threatening, but I felt like she was the type to take no prisoners.

"We already have free reign with their ATM's," I said. "What's the difference?"

"Also too," Daemon interjected. "Any type of major bank would have multiple layers of firewalls and white hats. Once I've started my attempt, I'd be traced within minutes."

"We'll only need a few minutes. If we can hamper the operations of even an area," Sam explained. "This could raise our standing in the network."

"It's not as simple as it sounds, Sam," Daemon waved his hand off. "Is there any good bitcoin out of this? Whoever might have posted this doesn't understand how deep we'd have to penetrate."

"I think Daemon's right," I suggested. "Getting into personal accounts and ATMs are one thing. Disrupting operations is another. If I were them, I'd have an airtight network with multiple redundancies. It'll set us up for a huge fall if we dig too deep inside their systems."

"So whaddya two suggest?" Sam pouted. "Cause you both are being super buzzkill today."

"Chill, Sam," I said. To be fair, she was over-reaching. "Let's go after a major, non-tech company instead? How does that sound?"

Daemon nodded his head. "Sounds like a better idea, ese. Who do you suggest, Sam?"

"I don't know," Sam sighed. "How about Walmann's? They threw a huge pissy-fit when Obamacare came into effect. They hiked their co-pays and fees to milk us dry. Not for the old-farts, us."

"Daemon?" I said. Please say yes.

"Depends what we should do. Sam?" Daemon said.

Sam threw her hands up in the air. "Whatever. You two know more than I do. Do what you think is best."

Daemon and I looked at each other and shrugged. He pulled his laptop out of his backpack and set it up. Once he connected to someone else's unsecured WiFi, he'd connect to the Watch Dogs VPN. From there, he would route hacking attempts through different IP addresses scattered across the globe. Even I knew that launching an attack directly from any machine would land us a visit from the Feds, or worse, other hacking groups. Occasionally, it was essential to target things outside of Philly. Law enforcement was good at finding patterns and having an anomaly in there threw their thought process off faster and harder than a BSOD on a Windows machine.

Daemon hunched over his keyboard. "Okay, I've found a gateway IP address and I'm in."

"Alright, let's use a logic bomb," I said. "Let's give us enough cycles for about 24 hours or so."

"Assuming its a corporate mainframe, I've set it to 1.728 and ten to the ninth power," he said. "Sam, any specific place on the server?"

"I'm not looking for any information," Sam said. "Find the root directory, plant it, and get out of there."

"Starting," Daemon said.

His computer beeped every few seconds, just to let us know that the anti-tracking software was in place and everything was going normally. After a minute though, it started beeping with ever-increasing frequency and urgency. I peered over Daemon's shoulder. He had a task manager window open, hoping to cajole it to go quicker without the system collapsing due to instability. Even through the barrage of his computer warning him to take action, Daemon kept his cool and resolve. He didn't break his attention from the screen.

"And there, into the root directory. It's done, holmes," Daemon said, the beeping gone. "What are we all doing next, just waiting?"

"Pretty much," I shrugged. "Unless you two want to get something to eat?" Sam flipped out her cell phone. "And somewhere else besides Philly food."

"Shaddap," Sam snapped. "And I never get tired of it either."

"I've never been around this neighborhood much," Daemon wondered. "Who lives here?"

"Besides the yuppies and college kids? Mostly Indians, Pakistanis, and a few Ethiopians."

"I see."

"Anyway, I know a place nearby. Let's go there," I said, grabbing a keffiyeh and stuffing it in my pants. To most, it looked like terrorist garb. It was my lucky charm.

"Wait, you're not taking me to a place that eats brains are you?" Sam chimed.

I grabbed my stuff and rolled my eyes. "No."

The truth was, I was never a very good person with minorities until I got here. The closest thing I had growing up was the token Chinese or Filipino family; working in the Chinese Restaurant or as a janitor at my old high school. As much as they would like to claim that, blacks and Hispanics didn't count as they hung out with each other all the time. When I first moved here, I confused a desi for a terrorist or a tourist more than a couple of times. But the more I interacted with them, the more it made me respect their hard work.

I led my colleagues on foot to Karachi Restaurant, on Chestnut Street. A converted diner and simple sign was the only thing that gave it away. It was a hangout for the expat taxi drivers and college kids who got tired of takeout Chinese. Like all diners, inside was just as sparse, with a few brown booths along the windows. Mr. Nawaz, with his trademark blue apron, green shirt, and black rimmed glasses, always insisted on cleaning some of the tables himself even though he owned the place.

"Take a seat. I'll be right with you," he said.

We found an empty booth. "So, what's good here?" Sam asked, picking up one of the menus.

"Brains, eyeballs, and penises," I said.

She slapped her menu down on the table, eyes bulging. "Oh no you didn't."

Daemon and I laughed. "Yeaah, buddaay," he said and high-fived me. "That was good. Right, Sam?"

"Whatever," she snorted and retreated back into the menu. "Men."

"Asalamwalaykum, Mr. Nawaz," I said as Mr. Nawaz approached us with glasses of water in hand.

"Wa alaykumu s-salam, Nathan!" he greeted me. He set three glasses of water on the table. "How are you doing?"

"Business is going great. These are my colleagues, Sam and Daemon," I lied. "We kind of snuck out of the office, so don't tell our boss," I smirked. "How's Faisal?"

He laughed. "He's doing much better now. Thank God you were there. Ready to order?"

"Er, give me a few minutes," Sam said, still staring over the menu.

"Same," Daemon said.

"Ah, okay," Mr. Nawaz said. "I'll be back."

"So, uh, how do you know this guy?" Sam asked. "You don't seem to be the type to hang out with a diverse crowd."

"His son was jumped by black kids up the street," I explained. "Called him 'terrorist' and 'towelhead' and tried to rob him before I whooped their asses. Not all black people are bad. But when someone threw a rock through one of the restaurant's windows, cause 'their precious' got beat up for jumping the poor kid, I'd say that's overreacting."

"That's like saying all Hispanics are gangbangers," Daemon said.

"And we're all fat, acne-ridden, socially-retarded cartoon characters that everyone expects to crap code and to remain snark-less," I retorted.

"Give it a rest, Nathan," Sam stopped me. Before I ramble on of course.

"Anyway, the man loves America," I said. "He got his citizenship last month."

My phone vibrated. It was probably another e-mail or text and I could afford a quick glance. I took one look at it and saw:

_Hacking attempt detected._

Lovely, another hacker. If it wasn't a yuppie bro from UPenn, it was a cocky script-kiddie from one of the local high schools. They were control-freak nerds that, for a lack of a better word, were too weird for normal society. Hiding my phone under the table, I pinged every cell phone within a 15-foot radius. Nothing. If anyone was dumb enough to hack that close, I'd drag them to the ground and teach them a lesson they'd never forget. I'm no track star, but I'm pretty sure I can catch anyone with a 15-foot head start.

"Guys, I forgot my contacts," I whispered. None of us wore contacts. That was our signal for an intrusion on a mobile device.

I stood up and walked out. Pinging everyone's cell phone within the neighborhood would overwhelm my cell phone to handle the data and light me up in the process. Social engineering was the key. Not everyone carried a smartphone and far fewer were that tech-savvy. Walking down Chestnut Street toward the city hopefully was enough to shake him off. It couldn't be the old man taking out the garbage nor the black lady talking on her cell phone at the car wash. As the neighborhood turned increasingly into apartments and antique row houses, I wondered whether he'd escaped. Glancing across the street, I saw an Asian guy in a white hoodie with white earbuds in his ears and decided to ping his cell phone.

_Albert Yu. 19. Student, Temple University. Information Science and Technology major. Reprimanded for illegal peer-to-peer network.  
_

Thankfully, I'd just have to walk a little further. He picked the wrong hacker to mess with.

Once I approached 40th Street, I looked behind. Sam and Daemon followed me, just like we had rehearsed. Warning tones over Wiz Khalifa were probably his choice song now for that hacker. I made my approach, blending in with the crowd, jaywalking a cross-walk or two. I picked up my pace a bit. If it weren't him, it'd be his cell phone. If I could send it into the street, it would make my day.

Then he took off; he knew I was coming. As I pulled my keffiyeh up past my nose, I chased his ass as well. Even though he shoved people into my way, he kept running straight. The nerve. Seemed to me like he didn't know West Philly very well, only sticking to the escape route where he knew best. Even I could find a better one on Google Earth. As Chestnut Street sloped downhill toward UPenn and the river, I sprinted. Dazed and confused, he started slowing down near UPenn, gasping and heaving along the way.

He reached into his waistband and pulled out a gun. I reached for my keychain baton and flicked it open, sidestepping him. Before he could aim his gun at me, I bashed his wrist, forcing him to drop his weapon. I swung again at his knee and he dropped to the pavement. He tried reaching for something else, but I'd put an end to that. Another bash to the head, another to his elbows. All he could do was moan.

With a huff, I collapsed my baton and put it away, choosing to check the gun for a bit before the cops showed up. On the surface, it looked like any other 9mm handgun. No serial number, an unrecognizable company logo, and "6mm caliber" in plain white letters. This punk was carrying an airsoft gun. Asian trying to act tough. Anybody with a real gun would have shot his ass.

I kicked his pathetic toy gun toward him. "Punk-ass bitch using an airsoft gun," I growled. "I should've shot you with a real bullet, to show you what it's like."

He whimpered like a little girl. Not a word. Not a fucking word. There was no use in interrogating him, as he's just a student and would hardly be in contact with super-coders in the deepweb. The rabbit hole went very deep and it looked like he barely scratched the surface. As a foot-soldier, the cops could interrogate him all they'd like. Everything that he knew, I knew. He was going to beg for his plea deal all hours godspeed.

"Are you okay?" Sam said as she caught up to me. I turned. Daemon followed closer behind, gasping for breath.

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said. "Can't say the same for him."

"Is that a gun?" Sam pointed out.

"Airsoft," I muttered. "Look, let's get out of here. 'Stand Your Ground' laws are mute when hacking's concerned."

The two of them silently acknowledged me and went off in opposite directions. I headed northeast, toward 30th Street Station. Taking an out-of-state train was always an option, but I doubt I needed to. I could sneak off without much fuss for now. They both knew this city pretty well, so I wasn't worred about them.

After that eventful day, I resigned myself to squinting at my computer screen at my desk. A bowl of mac-and-cheese had to do in place of chicken tandoori. I lost my mind wandering the internet and browsing memes. I should have apologized to Mr. Nawaz for walking out on him. My phone rang with an unknown number. I hoped it wasn't another hacker.

"Hello," I said.

"Hey, ese," Daemon said. "You chilling now?"

I sat back and put my legs up. "Why? What's going on?"

"Land of the free, my friend. Watch my beer."

Something just went down. I turned to CNN. Apparently, our little logic bomb had worked too well. Whoops. A localized power outage in downtown Chicago was our handiwork. It looked like a huge cavity appeared on the skyline. A black, lifeless ugly thing exposed itself like penis graffiti. Chicago Police said that they would find whoever they did this and bring him to justice. They could look all over the country if they wanted to and I would happily shove my middle finger in their faces by the 'LOVE' statue. Dicks.

"Uhm, that was supposed to happen, right?" I faked my nervousness. "Does your girlfriend know about this?"

"You could say so. I put a little too much nitro into my car, haha."

"Hey man, I know you got an early wake up tomorrow, with your brother and all. I'll let ya get some sleep."

"Alright, holmes, take it easy."

"Yeah, you too. Night"

As soon as I ended that call, my phone vibrated. WDN Message. Unlike most phones that were required to use only one standard telecommunication protocols of the mobile companies, this was set up to use any of them, including private networks. Watch Dogs wasn't stupid. Anonymous inspired us like everyone else. We may have had our ideological differences, but our differences made us stronger. There was not just one, all omnipotent network the media and police could blame, there were many.

It flashed on my screen as someone from _WDN_AP_. "I don't believe we met before. But I know you were behind that localized power outage in my city."

Interesting how he could pinpoint who did it. "Your city? How so?"

_WDN_AP: _I don't like other Watch Dog users mess with a city they don't know about. I'd just appreciate if you kept to your city and I'll keep to mine. It makes things easier.

Normally, WDN cells across the country tried to stick within their cities or neighborhoods. But companies globalized and without any true borders on the internet, our fight spanned countless waves of American corporate debauchery. Interacting with cells across the country in real-time was normal. If nothing else, the people who drove Watch Dogs went for the neck and held on like pit bulls. In the past, we used to be dogs with a lot of bark, but no bite. I'm glad that's changed. Staying on the sidelines and organizing our little social media campaigns was not enough for me.

"Because it's a major city, targeting Chicago IP's are inevitable. I can't guarantee that we'll stay out of your way entirely."

_WDN_AP: _Just make it subtle, leave shutting down the city to me. I'm not interested in Philadelphia.

"Okay. Who should I call you?"

_WDN_AP: _Aiden. And you?

"Nathan."

_WDN_AP: _Well Nathan, you show potential. You have my curiosity. Good luck.

I wondered what my family would make of this. Nobody would really understand anyway. Simple things such as servers, networks, and routers were met with blank stares and incoherent head-nodding. Hell, at one point, everyone tried to steer me away from "the computers" to choose more traditional fare. In all honesty, I don't care. As long as it was good for business, I was content with a distorted view on who we were and what we did. Whoever the networks dragged in to be their pundits had to really dumb it down in five minutes. All were feeble attempts to jam conformity and to rationalize what they could not understand.

We were not defined by societies' morals.

We were formless and indivisible.

We knew that.

Legend.

* * *

**Rule of the Internet #29. You can not divide by zero (just because the calculator says so).**

* * *

AN: I hoped to draw more on Nathan's past and draw some continuity between the other cells of the WDN. One thing I will not do is reveal everything, especially Nathan's last name. Defcon talks have been a very useful resource into the mindset and methodology of the hacking/computer security world. I find it more interesting than TED talks, IMHO. TED talks inspire new ideas, Defcon talks about messing things up. I've also been catching up on developer interviews and it looks like it is possible that killing can be avoided if the player chooses. While killing can certainly be written in, gun crimes and murder are looked at much severely in the United States compared to other felonies by police departments.

Any feedback is appreciated.


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